


Collision Course

by ninemoons42



Category: Jonah Hex (2010), Wanted (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Crossover, Fight Sex, Gunplay, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Rough Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You can now read this fic in Russian - translation by <a href="http://ficbook.net/authors/MadChameleon">MadChameleon</a>: <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/2269748">Встречный курс</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Collision Course

**Author's Note:**

> You can now read this fic in Russian - translation by [MadChameleon](http://ficbook.net/authors/MadChameleon): [Встречный курс](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2269748).

  


title: Collision Course  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 3150  
fandoms: Wanted, Jonah Hex  
pairing: Wesley Gibson / Burke [which I guess makes it McFassy in a very strange way]  
rating: NC-17  
notes: Inspired by [this](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/post/8816948521/klavierofdevil-d-3-burke-wesley) Tumblr graphic. Basically, Burke, Michael Fassbender's evil henchman character from Jonah Hex, somehow encounters Wesley Gibson from Wanted, and violence and sex ensue. Crackfic + timey wimey wibbly wobbly spacey wacey.

  
All he remembers is a blinding flash of white light, the distant rumble and roar of the train going up in flames. Turnbull falling, blood on his hands, and that bastard Hex still looking out with that ruin of a face, a sight to turn any other man’s stomach.

Truth, he sometimes wonders how Turnbull could stand looking at that sonofabitch. Burke’s no stranger to hideous faces – who the hell is _he_ to talk? And he used to fuck some really terrifying-looking people, only because they could do all kinds of things to him – but Hex? Something straight out of nightmares and the worst bottles of moonshine he’d drunk and heaved into and smashed to bits.

Burke opens his eyes now, and the room is the pale deathly white of a hospital. Calm, calm, he must have just taken a little more damage than he’d thought.

Someone is talking, and he strains his ears to follow that scratchy, strange woman’s voice.

A woman on the radio? Where is he?

_We have received reports of another shooting rampage in the city of Chicago...we urge everyone to stay safe, stay inside your houses.... The military and police have joined forces in pursuit of the shooter, believed to be the same person responsible for the blast that destroyed a textile mill...._

Mayhem, violence, things and people flying into pieces, and he knows instinctively – only one kind of person can do this kind of work.

 _His_ kind of person.

Burke gets up, carefully. Sharp edge of pain along his shoulders, and when he looks down at himself he can see the burns, the scars, the white bandages.

He smiles, and he sees himself in the mirror. He’s going to have to put something on to hide his face, maybe. Wherever he is, he’s not known yet, and he remembers how Turnbull used to operate. A brutal strike from the shadows, yes, that’s the way.

And then in a few days-weeks-months that woman on the radio will be properly afraid when she speaks _his_ name. She’ll know her place.

Sounds like a plan, he thinks, and he whistles as he retrieves his clothes – he’ll steal more, be better dressed, cover up his damned mug.

Hiss of pain and pleasure when he unthinkingly sticks his hands in his trouser pockets. At least he still has this knife – what possessed him to put it in his pocket bare? – and he twirls it absently before he tucks it away.

Burke smiles and shimmies out the window – how convenient and foolish of them to provide him with a means of escape – and he heads into the center of the city, hands in his pockets and the knife securely stashed in the small of his back. Trusting his instincts to lead him to where the danger flared brightest....

///

_Bright lights, bright city, watch things go boom, better than having sex._

_Well, most of the time._

Wesley Gibson is humming, and Chicago sprawls out before him, a flurry of activity like a kicked anthill.

Child’s play to break into any building now, no matter what kind of sorry excuses for security systems they’ve got. What good is a camera when one can be fast enough to take it out before anyone who’s looking at it can even register what it’s seeing?

There is a stone somewhere in the damn mat. Damn this place, some kind of helipad-whatever. A sharp edge digging into his hip. Why now? Got to focus. Got to calm down. This intel better be good or....

He peers down the scope of his sniper rifle and there, there’s his target, one of Sloan’s last lackeys. He should be so lucky he’d been buried away somewhere at a boring desk job. He should be so lucky that he escaped the mill.

Well, there’ll be no escape for him this time.

The world vanishes to the tiny window he can see, one eye pressed to the scope. Calculations running lightning-fast through his head: wind speed, distance to target, angle of attack. A minute adjustment to the rifle, just a hair to the left and down.

Wesley smiles, and doesn’t know he’s smiling, and he lets his finger tighten on the trigger, slowly, slowly, got to catch him right. So much is riding on this shot. If he makes it, the last traces of the Fraternity in this city will be wiped out. He can cross Chicago off the list.

Next stop, he hasn’t quite decided on it yet – he’s not established enough to continue to the other North American enclaves. Europe maybe? Back to Pekwarsky and his weird ideas of alcohol? Regroup, most definitely, get started on building his own set of guns. Important as Fox’s arsenal to him is, it cannot be his. He has to do everything by his own rules. Wesley Gibson, son of Cross – scourge of the Fraternity.

Stress, stress, and he feels every drop of sweat that breaks out on his forehead. Heart pumping madly; he has to be careful where he’s putting his hands or his own damn pulse will throw his trigger finger off. Fuck, he’s still not used to this superhuman ability shit.

_Target acquired._

Wesley closes his eyes, opens them again. Breathes. Fires.

The man with the gray hair – suddenly has no hair at all. No head, for that matter. Drops soundlessly to the ground, fucker didn’t even have time to scream.

He’s about to smile at himself – job well done – when someone else walks up to the body.

_Holy shit he’s – is this fucker looking at me?_

One look through the scope is all he needs, in this state: one glance to know that face. That mocking grin that seems to be aimed directly at him.

_Tattoos on his face, big mistake, can’t hide that. Who fucking wears that kind of hat these days? Who dressed him? No wonder people don’t want to look at him, maybe he’s doing something right after all, black turtleneck in this heat wave? Fuck you!_

He doesn’t waste his time, he has to retreat, he has to make new plans.

///

Burke knows what he’s looking for, now. The kind of weapons that could kill a person like this. The kind of person who would use weapons like that.

He lets the police herd him away with the other gawkers, pulls his hat lower over his eyes and vanishes into the crowds. Trusting his feet to take him in the right direction. Hell of a long shot to make. Damn good gun. Damn good shooter.

Maybe he’d let him live? Could be amusing, after all. Could get lessons in shooting. Could maybe even get a good roll in the hay out of it.

No, ‘course not.

He sneers a little, to himself, as he keeps walking. So...impersonal. So distant. What was killing for, if you couldn’t enjoy yourself doing it? Burke, now, he likes watching people die, preferably when he’s been with them for hours and hours. So much he can do with a knife. Cut ‘em slowly to pieces, watch them bleed and blubber and burn down to the essentials. Babble all their secrets.

Burke likes listening to people when they know they’re about to die. They say such interesting things just before he gets up and stands behind them. Just before he slices their throats. One stroke, clean and fast. Just enough blood left in them to leave satisfying stains on his hands.

He licks his lips and when he looks up, there’s a kid in a green jacket slouching past him. Hair shining even in the fading sunlight. Is that what they do to themselves here? Boys painting their faces as though they were women? Maybe he just has specific tastes. This one looks a little pretty. Could be interesting.

It would be so easy, so easy, to take him someplace and tear him apart. Slowly, slowly. To take that beautiful face and mark it with the boy’s own blood.

He clenches his hands in his pockets instead.

There’s a flash of blue eyes in the crowd.

Burke swears loudly and breaks into a run.

 _Wrong, wrong, you are a fool,_ he thinks. Distraction! How often he’d been beaten for it.

He has to follow his instincts or he’ll never survive.

Blue eyes.

The eyes of a man who had just killed, and had enjoyed doing it.

///

Wesley walks all around the city, washes his hands several times, stops in for a bite to eat at a dingy out-of-the-way pizza joint.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle with each step.

His instincts are screaming at him – _Act normally! Get out of the country! Go to one of the safe houses! Kill the motherfucker already!_ It’s a sad thing to know this is what the inside of his head normally looks like, Fraternity or no Fraternity.

So Wesley ignores the voices and, at last, night falls upon the city.

He’s been walking for hours and he’s tired, and he pretends to collapse onto a park bench. Tips his head back and closes his eyes – not completely, though. It’s easy to slow down his breathing.

Whoever’s on his tail knows what they’re doing; it takes a good five minutes before someone walks past him, near enough to have to give his feet a wide berth.

 _Holy shit,_ Wesley thinks, and he still has to maintain his pretense, so he yawns and stretches and he gets leisurely to his feet.

This close, the man who had looked up at him through his scope looks thoroughly scary – and he knows scary, he remembers the faces of the Fraternity members. This one looks like some kind of god-emperor of some forsaken circle of hell, like he’d been killed and the fucker had managed to survive it.

If not for his own life being on the fucking line here, Wesley might have even approved. His kinda guy.

He settles, instead, for hurrying towards one of the safe houses. One room, clear sight lines to the window – and he knows the alley it looks out on – and to the door.

Guns from the hidden compartment – this one is in the tiny refrigerator – and he sits down in the chair in the middle of the room, to wait.

///

Burke breaks into a gun store past midnight.

The guns look so – ugly, impersonal, nothing like the pieces he’d been used to seeing on Turnbull’s group – but he still knows his way around them, and he loads up a couple of large-barrelled pistols before he sees the third display case.

He makes sure the safety’s on before he tucks the guns into his waistband, before he tears off his sleeve and wraps the cloth around his fist. One blow is all it takes.

An ivory-handled knife! He’s always wanted one.

Burke grins like it’s Christmas, and slips away.

He’s chasing someone clever, and he can feel the heat sliding into his blood. It’s always the feisty ones, he thinks, nothing like a good hard fight and a long chase before he brings his quarry down. Best kind of feeling in the world, almost as good as the knife sliding into someone’s heart.

He adjusts himself in the shadows and then in one leap he’s at the ladder – _Everywhere has ladders they’re all asking to be killed in their sleep_ – and he’s sliding in through the window.

He doesn’t even need to turn around to hear the other man breathing.

“Hello,” he says, grinning. “Waiting for me?”

A soft snort. “Not _hardly_.” A boy’s drawl from a man’s mouth – this should be interesting. “Turn around.”

Burke shrugs and does and it’s his first good look at the other man, at the other killer.

He lets his grin reach all the way up to his eyes – and then he drops into a crouch, draws the knives, charges forward into the attack.

///

 _Yeah, okay, lose a bet with yourself, how lame is that,_ Wesley thinks and as the other man moves he’s already dodging, silverflash of one blade and he’s moving faster than he’s ever moved before. One hand coming up to brace the other man’s wrist, the other hand coming down like the blade of an ax. Surprised grunt, and he’s snatching the falling knife and he’s in position to strike.

And Wesley is surprised to draw first blood – a shallow gash over the man’s cheek.

“Who the fuck are you,” he’s hissing. “Where are you from? Who sent you?”

“Questions, questions,” and the other man sounds positively gleeful. “Fight me and win and _maybe_ I’ll answer you – though I reckon I haven’t really got anything much to say to you.”

Wesley growls, quietly, in the back of his throat. The closer he gets in, the more he’s getting stressed, need and adrenaline shaking through him. He charges the other man with the knife – and at the last instant he turns the blade aside, drives his entire weight and his shoulder into the man’s midsection.

His opponent goes down fighting, of course. But Wesley simply grins – he may or may not have licked his lips in anticipation – and, faster than thought, draws his gun with his other hand.

_Fox had been trying to teach me how to be ambidextrous. Do as I say not as I do._

“Now,” he hisses, _“talk.”_

///

Burke hits the floor with a hard _thud_.

By all rights he should be getting back to his feet and giving the other man the beating of his life.

But the look in his eyes stops Burke dead, and he feels like he’s _already_ been shot.

He looks unflinchingly at the gun and he’s never been harder in his life.

And when he flicks his eyes down, the other man growls and grips the gun harder, shifts on his feet.

Too late, Burke knows what’s going on now, and he lets the grin reach all the way up to his eyes.

“Fight me or screw me, boy, kill me or kiss me, not sure I care any more, only that I want it and want it now.”

///

_god damn it_

Wesley is still moving in the fever-grip of his abilities, and he pounces on the other man, straddles his waist. Flash of a grin, those hips trying to roll up to meet him – he’s having none of that. His hand whipping out, seizing the other man by the throat. “Your name.”

“Burke.”

“Call me Wes,” is all he says, and then he’s swooping in to claim the first kiss – no finesse, no delicacy, _fuck all that_ , clash of teeth and tongues and, god, he’s getting so hard. Burke is fighting him, unasked, and it’s bypassing every trigger and every safeguard he’s ever had.

Wesley throws his head back and grits out a moan between his clenched teeth – and his hands are already tearing Burke’s shirt, loud in the room, and he looks down to see that the inked lines are tracing all kinds of writing over the other man’s torso. White bandages dark with dried blood.

He glances at Burke’s face. At his eyes.

And he almost doesn’t believe it when Burke nods. A minuscule movement.

Wesley growls again and brings one hand up over his head – he teeters, torn between a fist and an open hand – and then the _crack_ of his hand on the other’s face is loud in the room. Their harsh breaths.

Burke is struggling, now, and Wesley grins and hits him again, punches him in the gut this time – right between his own legs – and the answering grunt goes straight to Wesley’s cock. He can’t get out of his jeans and his briefs quickly enough.

He picks the gun up again, points it between Burke’s eyes. “You know what to do,” he says, and he moves up as Burke nods and moves down, silently.

Wesley flicks off the safety as he sinks into Burke’s mouth, and he can’t help but hiss – _good, don’t know don’t remember when I last got off, fuck_ – and he holds the gun steady, even as his hips stutter and jerk, even as he keeps his eyes on Burke’s mouth.

///

_Been a long time since I was taken like this._

_Long enough to forget that I like it._

He’s trying to breathe, he’s going to go mad, he _needs_. Needs that cock in his mouth, needs someone to touch him.

Someone is breathing above him, words entangled in gasps – _yeah yeah yeah come on_ – and then. _Shit._

The kid’s pulling off, pulling out, and Burke almost forgets that they’re supposed to be fighting here, he half-rises to follow and gets a boot to the chest for his troubles, and the hissed command.

_“Strip.”_

He nods, peels his trousers down.

A hand on him, rough and it’s Burke’s turn to hiss out a breath. Wes’s hand, pumping him hard, and –

Fingers, down there, and he knows what to do, wills himself to relax – not an easy thing, not when he’s all wound up like this – and he gnashes his teeth against the pain, against the intrusion.

Until Wes does _something_ with his fingers and Burke is suddenly seeing stars.

“Can’t wait,” he grits out. “Close.”

“Nice, you think I was waiting for your permission,” Wes growls, and then something bigger than those fingers is entering him. By all rights he should be kicking the other man away and putting a knife in his heart for his troubles, he should be taking him apart, but that’s the farthest thing from Burke’s mind right now.

///

Wesley moans, long and low, once he’s fully sheathed, and he risks a glance down. Burke’s face twisted in pain and ecstasy.

He fucks him hard, one hand crushing into his hip – five tell-tale bruises – and the other working Burke’s cock in time, a punishing rhythm, neither of them capable of lasting long under this kind of onslaught.

_Come on come on I can’t hold out it’s been too long and this is too good_

And there are hands on his wrists and Burke is jerking beneath him, strangled moans escaping his open mouth. His body is seizing Wesley in an iron-hard grip and he bites off a triumphant shout. World going white as he comes.

///

When Burke wakes up, he’s alone. He’s been cleaned up. There is a change of clothes next to him, and all of his weapons are stacked next to the new shirt.

There is a note on top and it takes him a moment to decipher the kid’s chicken scratch.

_Want a rematch, come and get me_

He reads that message several times before the words sink in – and he’s laughing, and maybe he doesn’t know anything else about Wes but he does know he’ll be seeing him again, sooner or no, and he whistles and grins as he gets painfully to his feet.


End file.
